


the kick galvanic

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Epistolary, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Patented John Irving Brand Yearning Letters, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 22:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30096015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: Irving writes letters to Gibson.fill for my Terror Bingo square: "Religion"
Relationships: William Gibson (1823-c.1848)/John Irving (1815-c.1848)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2020)





	the kick galvanic

And is love then more

Than the kick galvanic

Or the thundering roar

Of Ash volcanic

Belched from some crater

Of earth-fire within?

Are we automata

Or Angel-kin?

— R.H. Ash

_My dear Gibson,_

_It does not trouble me so to call you dear, in the way that I have called my friends in the past, in the way I have called my brothers and relations, for I know that you are as worthy as any of them, and that a true purity of spirit resides within you, no less and perhaps even more than in many a well-born man I have known in my years in the service of Her Majesty’s Navy._

_And because I recall being handed your papers when you first came aboard, and the X at the bottom to mark your name, and I know that should these words ever come before your eyes they shall not penetrate your mind or your heart._

_Gibson, do you dream of friendship and brotherhood with me, as I do with you? I know nothing of your background, other than that it must have been a sorely lacking one, but I think you a Christian man—your manner is gentle and knowing, as though the truth of the Lord has long sat comfortably in your soul._

_I have never discussed these things with you, though there is nothing that would please me more than to do so, leaning close in the candlelight over a prayer-book and speaking of spiritual matters._

_The wound of my own cruel ignorance in allowing you to come to harm by the hand of—I cannot even write his name, for he is a foul black mark upon this ship’s company, as dark and oily as the pitch he spreads between the planks—by the hand of that man—that wound pains me daily. It is a mark upon my soul. I wish to earn your forgiveness in whatever manner I can—for it is forgiveness I need; having abdicated my moral responsibility towards you, having caused by inaction the worst sort of… _

The bell rings four times, interrupting John’s concentration; he casts pounce over the wet ink, making sure it’s dry before carefully folding it up and putting it away.

When he returns to his cabin afterwards, he removes the unfinished letter from the leaves of his Bible, and draws his eyes over what he had written earlier—he wishes to finish it, to pull his scattered thoughts to some assuring conclusion—but he finds that his mind is aflutter with the urgent matters discussed in the command meeting: the lack of leads in the ice, the increase in the ship’s tilt, the appearance of the first signs of scurvy amongst the Erebites.

That evening Gibson comes to him with hot water for washing, and as he goes to pick up the linens left atop John’s bed he catches John’s eye, and frowns slightly. “Is there something the matter, sir,” he says—so attentive, always, to John’s state of mind.

John knows well that in the past he has been—not unkind, perhaps, at least not _purposefully_ so, but he has felt a great deal of anger, and oft when he managed to marshal enough discipline to keep it from the Captain and from his fellow lieutenants it had yet emerged in those early or late hours when his steward attended to him. Harsh words at accidental actions; frowns at the pinch of a pin, scowls at the dropping of a cloth. Even as Gibson learned to predict the whims of John’s moods he never flinched, nor showed fear, even when he ought to have; he has taken undeserved abuses from John gracefully, these last years, bending and never breaking.

Gibson is much like an aspen—thin and tall, and yet with the might of all the grove together, impervious to all breezes, to gales and injury. Whereas John—of a height with his steward, almost precisely—has not the roots to support him in a storm; he is a lone pine, brittle and near-toppling at all times. Would that he had Gibson’s strength—would that even now he could look him in the eye and say: _I wish to be closer to you, I wish you to speak to me as a friend._

But he will not. He will save it for his letters, where such sentiments can be safely stowed, without danger of revelation.

“It is nothing, Mr. Gibson. I—I wonder if you might fetch me more ink, I am almost run out of mine.”

“Of course, sir.”

Gibson he takes away the linens in his long arms and returns with the ink, which John did not even really need.

“Thank you,” John says. Gibson nods, and is gone.

_… having abdicated my moral responsibility towards you, having caused by inaction the worst sort of abuse. So let these letters be an unread record of my wish to do better by you, not only as your superior officer, but as a man._

_Yours very affectionately,_

_John Irving_

***

_My dear Gibson,_

_I often see you at your stitch-work in the galley, and I watch from a distance the gentle way you attend to my frayed cuffs and collars._

_This having been my first occasion to be serviced by a personal steward I have no way to know whether the close attentions paid to my things and my person by you are out of the ordinary; but I think when you are handling the mending of my fellow officers I perceive less care, less fine deliberation._

_My duties are more burdensome as ever, even as I wish I could keep you under my watchful eye at all times. I am troubled by fear that you might fall once again under the unnatural spell of that man. Was my clemency generous enough? Was my forgiveness sufficient, to free you from the toothed snare of his wicked mouth? _

_It has caused me a great deal of distress and confusion to imagine how you, a man possessed of such strength, such ease, could be swayed into sin—but I reflected on the power that comes from only the devil himself, and how I too have been tempted, in my time, and I count myself lucky that I have had the guiding light of Gospel and thoughts of cherished friends to help me stay the course._

_I could provide such guidance to you, if you were willing. I think I should choose verses to teach you, parables and sermons—I will ask you if you can be spared, for an hour in the evenings every week. I hope you would not think it an imposition._

_I am ever your affectionate friend,_

_John Irving_

***

They sit together in the wardroom of the emptied ship; beams creak around them as John reads from his Bible—the prodigal son, who returned from his wasteful ways and was welcomed back with graciousness and love.

Gibson listens attentively; his back straight in his chair, not slouching; in the lamplight his thin face is cast into shadowed planes, making him look far older and wiser than his twenty-two years.

He has always been scrupulously polite. He does not presume, he does not intrude. A model servant, in all ways—except for—but that is in the past, and here and now there is no scent of impropriety.

Perhaps he could stand to contribute more, but John does not mind doing all the talking for both of them. It feels good to discuss something other than tin cans and duty lists.

Eventually, though, John finds he has little more to say about the story, about mistakes and forgiveness and being lost, and then found—but he does not wish their meeting to be over.

“Why did you stay, Mr. Gibson?” he asks. “Why did you not go to _Erebus_ with Mr. Genge and Mr. Armitage? I would have understood if you did—it’s hard to move about, with the ice getting worse like this.”

“I’m needed on _Terror_ , sir.”

“Oh, us lieutenants can manage our own washing-up and dressing,” John says, with a kind smile. He is aware distantly that his tone might be perceived as condescending, but he hardly knows how else to convey what he means.

Gibson purses his lips; his hands drum on the table. He looks over at John from beneath golden lashes. “I knew Mr. Hickey would not go, sir, and I—I feared what he might do, if left to his own devices, here.”

What goes unspoken in this hushed confession is what brings John’s heart to the bursting point—that Gibson cares for him—that Gibson worries for him, far past what the responsibilities of his position require—that he would subject himself to the perilous _Terror,_ growing more coffin-like by the day, in order to—perhaps—preserve John, or at the very least to stay near to him…

He reaches out and grasps Gibson’s hand in his. “You have nothing to fear, Mr. Gibson,” he says, urgently. It is the most important thing in the world, that Gibson knows he is safe, as long as John lives.

Gibson looks down at their joined fingers and John thinks he sees the flicker of a smile play around his lips; though it could just be a trick of the light.

***

He smokes, his tobacco store ever-dwindling. He drinks. There is plenty of gin in the spirit room—John has always had a fondness for it, for the burn of it down his throat and the freeing float of his head, but never more so than in this darkest of winters. He stumbles through his duties for the sake of the morning and the evening, for the sake of breakfast and supper, for all those times tightly bound by the bells which Gibson spends close to him.

The other hours are lost. Things seem to happen around him, without order or reason. Conversation is muffled, food is tasteless. When he takes the watch he stares out into the icy blowing dark and imagines the warmth of his steward’s hand in his.

***

_My dear Gibson,_

_When I think of how I once raised my voice at you, early in the expedition, how I spoke to you with a wicked tongue, as if you were beneath me, unworthy of my respect, I am wracked with shame. For now each touch, each whisper of your voice, sends me into—spasms, of a sort—I wonder how I could ever have given you anything but kindness in return..._

_I desire to sing to you, to read poetry, to discuss the Gospels, to teach you Euclid and Arnott and see your eyes spark with understanding, I desire—!_

_For that is what it is: desire. I want you very badly. But I am no seducer. I am not like that man—I would rather die than subject you to my whims, I should cast myself off onto the ice rather than make you a prisoner of my ruthless want…. yet I cannot bear to be apart from you, I ache when you depart my berth, I am stricken all over as if with fits of grief, but you are alive, I have seen the clouds of your gathered breath in the cold air. _

_I will be a companion to you; I will be a guiding light. This I promise to myself and to you._

_In the past, on many a voyage, I have felt the devil’s presence when all is chaos around me: when I am distracted from prayer and from spiritual attentions. But you with your sensible certitude and your disciplined manner are an oasis, and thanks to you I have been more calmed than ever, more capable of true reflection and concentration… and so I believe I can be really and truly assured that these feelings you stir in me are not sent from Satan but from—elsewhere._

***

John is debating the conclusion, to precede his name— _I am yours, and no other’s,_ perhaps, or, _I am and always will be your loving friend,_ or _Believe me ever yours…_

And then there are shouts from the Great Cabin, and a great rending crash from above, and the letter lies abandoned and forgotten on John’s desk. 

Some time later, as Mr. Blanky lies less one leg in the forepeak, John and Lieutenant Hodgson converse with Sergeant Tozer, a desperate drilling-down of what exactly _happened_ up there, who is dead, who is hurt, what might have precipitated the attack, what protections need to be taken—surely they should not continue with the cannon exercises, even for the sake of observation, but that would be for the Captain to decide.

George is clearly shaken; Tozer is hiding it better, under his military bearing, but John can see they are all of them in need of a restorative.

“Mr. Gibson,” he calls; the steward appears silent at the door almost immediately. “Please, some spirits.”

“From your stores, sir?”

“There’s already an open bottle of gin in my berth,” John says, “on my desk.”

Gibson returns swiftly with the bottle, and pours out glasses for each of them. John thanks him and dismisses him, and then they wait for the Captain to appear and tell them what to do, which he does not, and so eventually John limps back to his cabin, wanting nothing more than to crash into sleep.

He is only barely undressed, his waistcoat hanging half-open, when he sees it. The letter is gone. _All_ the letters are gone, for he had been reading back the prior ones, not wishing to repeat himself, and the unfinished one had been laying beside the rest.

John staggers backwards until he hits the bulkhead; paralyzed and paranoid, he cannot move for fear.

He doesn’t have to wait long for Gibson to appear at his threshold, to step through and slide the door closed behind him.

With wide eyes John watches as Gibson raises up a very familiar piece of paper. “ _I want you very badly,”_ he reads calmly, “ _but I am no seducer…”_

“You—but you—you can’t—” stammers John. He feels his face grow hot. He has made a terrible mistake.

“I attended Mr. Bridgens’ lessons, when we were at Beechey, sir,” Gibson says, matter-of-factly. “It was not so difficult, as I feared it would be. The first thing he taught me was my own name. G-I-B-S-O-N.”

“I didn’t know…”

“You never asked.”

They stand there in silence a moment; John has the urge to snatch the letters violently from Gibson’s hand, but he is still dizzy from all that has happened tonight, and his limbs are like lead. He tips his head back until it thuds softly against the bulkhead; his eyes close and he feels set utterly adrift.

“Lieutenant Irving,” says Gibson, “are you disturbed by these…. feelings, towards me?”

“I ought to be,” says John, unable to keep the pleading note from his voice. He opens his eyes: Gibson has come closer, he is very close now, the letters still held in his hand. “I _know_ I ought to be, but I am not. They—they comfort me. They seem as if a gift—to see me through the worst of the winter, to wrap around me and keep the cold out— _you_ seem as if a gift—”

“So you would not cast me aside,” says Gibson, cutting through John’s babbling swiftly and easily. His tone is measured, clipped and disciplined in a way John’s voice has never been. “You would not suddenly refuse to meet my eyes… you would not have me lashed?”

“No. No, I would not,” says John, a hoarse whisper. He shakes his head. “I could not. I would—if you would allow it—I would cleave to you.”

“Then let us be as you wish, Lieutenant. There is no sense in waiting.” And he steps forward, leans in and kisses John, with such force and passion as to cause all thoughts in John’s head to be extinguished, like a cup over a candle, the granting of his every wish so explosive in its suddenness that he is joyfully, wonderfully _free,_ no ache in his heart and no emptiness in his gut, he is warm and clean and made over anew by his steward’s mouth, that nimble searching tongue, fine-boned hands pressing themselves insistently to his waist and his back.

The storm howls on and on outside—or perhaps it is the great beast himself, crying of his wounds—and so John’s gasps and whines cannot be heard elsewhere on the ship, as Gibson guides John between his thighs, slicking his way with oil from the lamp. John does not have to fear hurting him, like this. There is no pain here; though he is painfully aware of Gibson’s fundament, of his prick pulling sweetly against that hot entrance, of the nearness to the unthinkable deed.

John comes off frightfully quickly, a paltry dozen thrusts, spilling all over Gibson’s skin and the sheet below. He begs forgiveness, he is ashamed—but Gibson shushes him calmly, and turns over so that John may come to lie against him: which he does, but not before kissing Gibson madly again, press after press of chapped lips.

When John sits up there are dark wet spots, tear-stains where his face had been resting near the shoulder of Gibson’s shirt. The shirt’s tails hang down and cover Gibson. John slowly and reverently lifts the fabric, like a bridal veil, and beneath is Gibson’s prick—what else would be? It stands out stiff from his sunken stomach, darkened and leaking.

Feeling moved by a force outside himself, he reaches towards it, but lightly and with infinite grace Gibson catches his wrist, stops his hand in midair.

“It’s alright,” Gibson says. “I can take care… don’t worry yourself… ”

Gibson’s hand moves below and he begins to bring himself off, silently and quickly, sparing John the task, as if it were just another chore.

From his vantage point, head against Gibson’s heart, John stares out at the floor of his cabin, where his letters lay scattered. _My dear Gibson,_ he sees, repeated over and over, and he imagines the next one he will write, which might begin _My dear Gibson, what have I done?_

***

**Author's Note:**

> title & poem are from A.S. Byatt's _Possession_ , which as you can tell i just read for the first time 
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com) and [twitter!](http://twitter.com/areyougonnabe)


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